This Front is Cold
by LeDbrite
Summary: The road has weaved and bent, carrying them far from where they began. Yet through it all, they are still the same two boys from Brooklyn. A collection of one-shots. Friendship, no slash. \\ Drabble 6: There Are Days- "There are days when I'm tired of it all. When the truth of it hits me hard and I remember that by some curse or miracle I'm still alive. And it hurts."
1. An Introduction to Art

A/N: Jump starting my muse with a series of '100 Themes Writing Challenge' prompts. I'll be working on these everyday, though I don't know if I'll be able to post one each day.

The stories are partially inspired by the song "Never Be the Same" by Red. It fits Steve and Bucky's friendship very well.

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Prompt 1: Introduction

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 ** _An Introduction to Art_**

 _"A penny for the spool of thread; a penny for the needle. That's the way the money goes…" -folk song "Pop Goes the Weasel"_

...

Bottle rockets spluttered and fizzed, leaping from their canisters with a start, while poppers snapped, spitting confetti and streamers onto the sidewalk in front of the Nickel and Dime General store. Ecstatic over their success, the young boys convened in a huddle, fists reaching into pockets to see what money they had. With shouts of renewed, energetic, excitement, they rushed back into the store, ready to spend another nickel on their Independence Day celebrations.

Waiting till the last young scamp had passed him, Bucky entered behind them, the breath of fan stirred air slightly cooler than the muggy atmosphere outside. Bypassing the firework display (where the boys huddled with less than discreet voices), a slight smirk crossed his face as his eyes ran over the shop's wares, finding the items he was looking for. Approaching the counter, giving a nod and good-natured grin, he greeted the shopkeeper.

He remembered frequenting the shop from a young age, the many shelves seeming to contain a treasure trove. Feet pounding upon the floorboards, sight locking on the desired object, eager fingers snatching up the item, he'd been a rascally reoccurring customer. Plenty of pennies had been lost to the cause of candy over the years. Presents for his siblings had also earned his coins away, regardless of whether it was for a spur of the moment gift or to celebrate a birthday. Bottle rockets and poppers, like the group of boys were currently interested in, had always been a major source of his spending as he'd always stocked up on the Fourth of July. It was too good to pass up that Steve's birthday could receive special celebration in firework and sparklers. Though Steve had come to hate the traditional celebration, it wasn't a habit he could break Bucky from.

Returning the grin, Harry, the shopkeeper, asked, "And what may I do for you today, Mr. Bucky Barnes?"

Shaking his head, a light chuckle escaping him, Bucky leaned his forearms on the counter, so they could converse easily. Ever since he had informed elderly gentleman that he had gotten a job, the man had insisted in acknowledging him as 'Mr. Bucky Barnes', gently teasing him on how mature he was becoming. If it had been anyone other than old Harry, Bucky might've grown irritated at it, but Harry had always run the Nickel and Dime General and was a Grandfather figure to the neighborhood.

"Just need a few things today, Harry," Bucky replied.

"Ah." Harry smiled knowingly. "And where's Steve? I hope he hasn't gotten himself into a new fix."

"Nah," Bucky returned, waving away the idea. "Last I checked, he'd locked me out of his house. Something about 'Not needing a big party'."

"I see, well tell him happy birthday for me. He's eighteen now, after all."

"Will do," Bucky promised. "If he let's me in," he added with a laugh.

Nodding in satisfaction, eyes sparkling in agreed laughter, Harry moved away from the counter, hand half going to the shelves behind him in unconscious preparation to fill Bucky's order. "All right now, let me have that list."

"A sheet of papers, a pound of candy, and a few sparklers," he rattled off, watching Harry scurry to retrieve the items he had named. In particular, he watched the papers closely, possessively, intent that no harm would come to them. Steve would've protested against his purchases, if he had known, saying that Buck didn't need to buy anything for him. But Bucky had already thought it through, having set the pennies he earned aside every week to ensure that he could buy his friend a worthwhile gift. And he knew it was an expense Steve would never buy for himself. The money was needed elsewhere.

This was a present he had had planned for months.

Setting a slim stack of papers on the counter, Harry tied them together, dexterous fingers wielding the string easily. Scooping the candy into a sack, leveling it off, and placing it in a larger sack along with the papers and sparklers, he pressed a few keys on the register and, without looking at him, informed Bucky casually, "Ten cents."

Shooting him a sharp look, Bucky pulled the handful of bills from his pocket, shaking his head firmly. "The paper alone is-" he started at argue, but Harry stopped him.

Giving the young man a steady glance, he answered, "As a gift from me. Ten cents."

Smiling wryly, Bucky returned the dollars to his pocket and fished out a dime. "Thanks Harry."

"Make sure he enjoys them," Harry said, reaching across the counter to pat him on the shoulder.

"I will, sir," Bucky promised.

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Patriotic banners stretched above the streets, the red, white, and blue canvases tied from building to building. Streamers, made from scraps of fabric, decorated the clotheslines, masking them behind a flutter of bright colors. On doorsteps, penny pinwheels listed, waiting for a breeze or breath of air to give it movement.

Though ravaged by the Depression, New York was beginning to move past it. Five years ago, Bucky would've been amazed to see bottle rockets and poppers in the General store, and willingly would've stolen a handful, too, for the sake of giving his friend and siblings something to smile about.

At the start of the Depression, Harry, like other storeowners, had been hard pressed to keep the store stocked, and it was miraculous that he had managed to remain in business at all. Just as the city hadn't been able to afford fireworks, the shops hadn't been able to carry toy fireworks for the kids, and Fourth of July celebrations were something fondly recalled by those who remembered them.

It was only in the few recent years that they had made a gradual reappearance.

Close to Steve's apartment now, Bucky had already spotted the small flag Steve put next to his doorstep every year, when Bucky's steps were stayed, the quiet, distinct, sound of a fight reaching his ears. Backtracking, hurrying swiftly to find the source, adrenaline stirred in his veins, anger burning in his stomach. He had no doubt who was involved.

Ever since he had gotten a steady job, more and more often, he found Steve challenging a bully in an alley. The worst of it was that he couldn't tell if it had become more frequent because he wasn't there to dissuade the majority of the bullies, or if Steve went searching for trouble.

"Look at 'im," a snide voice laughed. "He's pathetic! What? You think you're gonna hurt us?"

Following the voice, sprinting past the buildings just up the road from Steve's apartment, blocking out all other sounds but that of flesh being hit, Bucky located the alley. Leaving the brown sack on a doorstep, having enough presence of mind to keep it out of the fray, he strode forward to confront the bullies, knuckles whitening in anticipation.

"Hey! Lay off him!" he barked, irate glare taking them all in.

It was four against one, Steve panting in a corner, hoarse breaths rasping in his chest, while the identically buff and beefy aggressors towered over him, confident in their victory. A few bruises already decorated the little guy's face, and at a guess, Bucky would say they had also hit him in the stomach, due to the way he was breathing. Surprised at being interrupted, the four turned to look at him, but Steve didn't outwardly react, having already accepted Bucky's appearance.

"Stay out of this," the one on left scoffed, giving him a vile jeer.

Not backing down, Bucky sized them up, eyes narrowing as he determined the leader. Bracing himself, falling into a familiar stance, he threw caution to the wind. Stepping in with a swift stride, closing the distance, he aimed low. Hitting soft tissue mass, the bully doubled over, exposing his face to the second punch that landed square on the bridge of his nose. With a sharp cry, hands shooting to his face, the bully stumbled as Bucky released him, tripping on his way out of the alley. Swinging around to confront the others, Bucky assessed their attitude, but with their leader incapacitated, the fight had left them.

Allowing room for the guys to escape, Bucky turned to Steve, offering a hand to help him up. "You're a mess," he commented.

"I had them on the ropes," Steve muttered, ignoring Bucky's hand as he picked himself up.

Giving him a look of disbelief, Bucky retrieved his paper sack. Not acknowledging the other's statement, he snorted, "What a way to spend your birthday. What were you doing challenging four of them?"

Gaining control over his breathing, his retort was slow in coming. "They were being disrespectful," Steve replied, straightening the collar of his shirt and patting the dust off his clothes.

"Of what?" Bucky demanded, not all that surprised. He had heard worse reasons before.

"They were singing the songs wrong, all right?" Steve sighed.

Granting him an exasperated look, Bucky didn't need to hear the rest to figure out the situation. At the nearby park, musicians performed patriotic themes upon the Fourth, sharing their love for music and country with the local picnickers and pedestrians who visited on the holiday.

"Here, this is for you."

"Buck, really?" Steve asked without enthusiasm, warily taking the brown sack, his tone one of reluctance to receive a gift.

"You'll like it," Bucky promised, crossing his arms.

Paper crinkling as his small, deft hands opened it, Steve's expression of concentration changed into one of confusion when he spotted the paper. Pulling the slim pile out, automatically running a hand across the blank surface in an artist's appreciation for the untouched page, he stared at it for several moments before shoving it back into the sack.

"Buck, you didn't have to," he said quietly.

Shrugging, Bucky gave a lopsided grin. "But I wanted to."

"Seriously though, you really didn't-"

"Hey." Bucky gave Steve a direct look; already knowing the argument his friend would give. "Don't tell me you can't use the paper. I've seen how you draw. And remember the 'Prince Valiant' comics we used to read, and how you would study them for hours? Well, now you can illustrate some of your own."

An embarrassed, but pleased, smile spread across Steve's face incrementally, unable to hide the fact that he really appreciated the gift. Shaking his head after Bucky finished speaking, he murmured, "Thanks, Buck."

Ruffling the blonde's hair, Bucky returned, "You're welcome punk."

Falling into step with each other, they meandered leisurely towards Steve's apartment, neither in any particular hurry. Every so often, Steve would glance inside the bag, checking on the paper, a giddiness filling him at the prospect of what he would draw.

Pleased for his friend, but not calling him out on his obvious excitement, he instead returned to an earlier conversation.

"You know," Bucky began, teasingly, an impish smile quirking at his lips. "Just because someone can't sing doesn't mean they're being disrespectful."

Shoving his shoulder, not having any effect, though Bucky waved him off, Steve grinned. "C'mon, you know that wasn't the case."

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oOo

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Swallowing a majority of the water down in a few rapid gulps, Sam splashed the last of it on his face, washing off the sweat, and helping to cool down from their jog. Looking over at Steve, judging the super soldier's mood, he posed cautiously, "You okay man?"

Steve shook his head, rolling his shoulders in a stretch as he waited for Sam to recuperate. But a small frown furrowed the skin between his brows, and his hands kept moving in short, restless gestures, a good indication that something was eating at him.

"Seriously Cap," Sam pressed. "You ran twice as fast as you usually do, you can't tell me it ain't nothing."

"It's not," Steve answered, with a reassuring smile that wasn't quite believable.

Exercising patience with him, Sam gave him a few moments before speaking calmly. "Tell me."

Gaze dropping to the grass, Steve didn't remain quiet for long.

"It's Buck. I don't know how he'll do today. He's been doing better, but the fireworks might but too much, and I don't want him to sulk the rest of the week because the Winter Soldier was triggered."

"Does he know what today is?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I told him."

"Will you do anything to celebrate?" Sam continued.

"I didn't tell him about that," Steve admitted.

"Maybe you should," Sam suggested. "It might help."

"I don't know," Steve answered doubtfully. "I don't want him to feel like he needs to do something about it. Tony already offered to host a party for me, Natasha said she'd drop by with a gift, and Clint's kids sent me a few drawings. I don't want him to feel the need to give one too."

"He might be hurt more by the fact that you withheld that fact from him instead of giving him a chance to decide for himself," Sam pointed out gently.

Absorbing that information, Steve was quiet, deep in thought, and they didn't bring it up again. Past the early hours, morning had settled into full daylight as they finished up their morning jog. Walking the short distance to the flat where Steve and Bucky resided, Sam remained respectful of Steve's space and didn't offer conversation, giving silent companionship, but not pushing to know what Steve had decided.

Inserting the key, giving a few knocks to let Bucky know they were there, Steve called out, "Buck, I'm home, and I brought Sam."

Preceding the way in, a slight frown creased his features as he listened for the quiet movement. There was almost always some telltale sign to inform him of where Bucky was, but the apartment was silent.

"Bucky?" he questioned aloud, moving towards the bedrooms, wondering if his friend was still asleep (which would be unusual, since Bucky always woke up when Steve got up), half afraid that Bucky might've fled.

"Hey, Steve," Sam called to him from the kitchen. "There's a note here."

"What's it say?" Steve demanded, rushing to look at it.

"'Be back'," Sam read, handing the square, yellow, sticky note over for Steve's inspection.

Skimming over the jagged handwriting, the two words giving nothing away, cold settled in his stomach. It was hard to believe that after searching for his old friend for so long, that he could lose him again without any warning.

Pouring two glasses of water, glancing at the super soldier to gauge his reaction, Sam commented softly, passing over one of the glasses, "He'll probably be back soon. He doesn't say much, so that might be why he didn't add 'soon'."

"I hope so," Steve whispered.

Making a quick call, Sam cleared his schedule, promising to stay with Steve until Bucky returned.

Hours passed, the sun peaking, then sliding downward, the rays angling through the window blinds showing its progress. As a good friend, Sam kept Steve occupied, politely ignoring how Steve remained unfocused. Although he did try to enjoy Sam's attempts at keeping him entertained, he couldn't stop worrying over Bucky.

At every noise from outside, he turned expectantly, praying that it was Bucky. Every phantom turn off the lock, he got up and went to the door. Every time a neighbor called out a greeting, he listened carefully in case the recipient was Buck.

It was well past three o'clock by the time Bucky did return.

Slipping through the door, he froze, listening to the two voices, placing whom they belonged to. Satisfied that there wasn't any danger, Bucky entered the living room, observing them for a moment before either Sam or Steve realized he was there.

"Here," he offered, monotone, causing them to jump at the unexpected sound of his low voice. Taking out the bag he had tucked under his jacket, he held it out to Steve.

Half rising in shock, eyes fixated on Bucky, Steve stammered, "You're back!"

Casting him a curious glance, looking to Sam for confirmation, Bucky offered a half shrug, not seeing where the merit was in Steve's actions. Slinging the bag, keeping his aim low, it thumped into Steve's chest, the soldier's hands reflexively trapping it there.

"What's this?"

Rising an eyebrow, waiting for Bucky's response, a steady stare was all he received. Keeping an eye on the other, Steve handed the plastic bag over to Sam (who, in turn, dropped it onto the arm of the couch), surprise filling his features as he caressed the cover of the book.

"A sketchbook?" he questioned Bucky, a lump forming in his throat, a byproduct of the strong emotions stirring within his heart.

"Happy birthday, punk," Bucky murmured softly.

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A/N: Apologies if the present time scene was a little rushed.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Drive it Home

A/N: Originally, I had planned to up load these in order, but Day 2 is only about 50% complete, and this one was ready to be written, so I went ahead and finished it.

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Prompt 3: Drive

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 ** _Drive it Home_**

 _"When handling an asset, you don't get close to them, you don't socialize with them. It's easier that way. If things get complicated, people get hurt, and it's easier to make the hard call." –Burn Notice: Season 3_

...

 **What would you do to end this mission?**

 _"The world is at a tipping point…"_

Metal plates click into place, click, click, click, artificial left hand mimicking the motions of a flesh one. Bending the fingers, clenching them into a fist, subtle adjustments ripple up the prosthetic, cold, unyielding.

 **To carry it out to its conclusion?**

" _You've shaped a century…"_

The gun weighs heavy at his back, brimming with relentless energy, the same, cold, anomaly as the cyber arm. All it takes is a pull of the trigger. To reach back, grab it, and without a thought, the bullet will have flown into the target's chest.

 **What will you sacrifice to find the end? To see all of this be… Over.**

 _"We need you to do it one last time…"_

Pacing forward, getting into position, he sights the target, the one he'd let go. The one who'd let _him_ go.

 **And once it's gone, who will you be?**

 _"Your targets are two level six agents…"_

Gritting his teeth, a muscle flickering in his jaw, a wary scowl darkens his face. "Steve," Bucky croaks, shoulders hunched, helpless in the wave of uncertainty that has washed over him, carrying him in its merciless wake. "I couldn't drive it home."

The blonde super soldier doesn't seem to hear him, blue eyes unblinking with unreadable emotion. Embracing his lost friend with a tight grasp, holding him as if he'll never let go, his voice chokes on the three words: "You're home now."

 **What is your mission?**


	3. Know You Belong

A/N: Not part of the '100 Themes Prompts'. Just wanted to post this one, and felt that it (unintentionally) tied into the theme of the previous one-shots.

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 ** _Know You Belong_**

 _"Some of us aren't meant to belong. Some of us have to turn the world upside down and shake the hell out of it until we make our own place in it." -Elizabeth Lowell_

 _"At the end of the day, it isn't where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I'm going and never have been before." -Warsan Shire_

...

It's the Soldier who sits stiffly in the chair, not Bucky. Moving the seat deliberately across the room, distancing himself both physically and mentally, it creates an air of captor and captured, thickening the tension between them by the unconscious setting of boundaries. His eyes follow Steve's movements, cold, calculating, but vacant with the Soldier's programming, gaze not echoing the persistent puzzling inside that fills his thoughts. Back ramrod straight, pressed firmly into the chair, his arms rest useless at his sides, the metal and the flesh, unneeded as there is no threat, no target. Just an old friend.

One who recently was both threat and target.

Permeating the room with its generous light, a shaft of morning sun pools below the window, a golden line in no man's land, to mark the division of sides in the small flat. Warm and invigorating, it promises a beautiful morning of the kind that spring often gives, belying the weather forecast of storms in the afternoon.

Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, hair ruffled from his morning jog, dressed in an athletic shirt and sweats, Steve gathers bowls and utensils, following his usual morning routine. It's the stable of his day, laying the familiar groundwork of a pattern as the consecutive hours could bring anything. Holding himself relaxed, not acknowledging the stifling silence that has grown between them, pretending that Bucky isn't behaving like the assassin that HYDRA has made him into, he treats Bucky in the way that he always has, in the way that he knows, under a belief that things will be fine.

Somehow, it'll all pass.

Someday, things will be normal again.

The normalcy of the sounds, the opening the refrigerator, pouring cereal into a bowl, spoon clinking as the cheerios are stirred into the milk, are unnaturally sharp and jarring, painfully obtrusive in the silence, keeping tempo for their game of waiting, each watching to see who will break character first.

In the weeks since Steve had brought Bucky home, the Soldier wary, bristling for an attack, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation, they had fallen into a fragile routine. Steve didn't push the other, becoming accustomed to being shadowed, frequently acknowledging Bucky, but never approaching him. The Soldier had made it very clear that under no circumstances was Steve to get close to him, but the super soldier couldn't help reaching out again and again, longing for the friendship that had once existed, oh so long ago.

"Do you want anything for breakfast, Buck?" Steve asks casually, eyes fixed on the activities that occupy his hands.

Imperceptibly tensing, the Soldier's eyes narrow, his scrutiny unwavering as he studies the other with renewed intensity. "You shouldn't trust me," Bucky growls back, the recital the same answer for every time Steve has tried talking to him, though his voice carries no volume, no emotion, in its monotone phrasing.

Jaw clenching, an indrawn sigh expanding his chest, Steve proceeds to set up cereal boxes beside the second bowl, carefully laying out a spoon, and purposely replacing the cap on the milk to place it among the collection too. Deliberately keeping his back towards Bucky, unable to hide his thinly veiled frustration and dimming hope, it's all he can do to not retaliate. Eyes dark, the fierce, just, protective anger at what HYDRA has done to his friend rises strongly, calling for action, but with hope waning, it's unthinkable to even consider enacting upon it.

 _"It'll be slow,"_ Sam had cautioned, when they had finally found Bucky, solemn gaze on Steve's face, though Steve didn't look at him. _"He won't ever recover. And it'll take some time before he's functional."_

 _"He'll be fine,"_ Steve had insisted, speaking past Sam's well-meaning intentions.

 _"I'm just saying you shouldn't expect too much,"_ Sam had returned seriously.

Turning to meet Bucky's gaze, expression openly frank, not hiding the toll things have taken on him, Steve offers a tentative smile, mutely beseeching him to lower his guard, to recall their old friendship, to understand all that he was trying to prove through actions.

"Come and pick what you want to eat."

Eyes flicking to Steve's face, a new resolution lowering the Soldier's stand-offish diffidence, Bucky shifts slightly, right hand going to rub fretfully at his left shoulder, where metal meets skin, a movement that has become characteristic when struggling between the personalities of both characters. Deep consideration keen in his eyes, he turns his face away thoughtfully.

This is how their mornings play out, staged on Steve's return from jogging, the scene's repetitive reenactment the same as it'd been the day before, the same since day one. As dictated by habit, silence is Bucky's mandated response after the first, quiet warning. As has been their routine. Regardless of any comments, remarks, or questions Steve might direct at him, Bucky would keep his stoic refusal to speak.

Expecting things to play out in the preset order, it's with both surprise and a sense of rejuvenated hope that Steve hears Bucky deviate from course.

"Why?"

"'Cause you need to eat, pal," Steve reminds him, although he knows what Bucky is really driving at.

"No," Bucky returns shortly, his words clipped, with an abrupt shake of his head, a scowl darkening his features as he pieces the words to explain himself. Meeting Steve's gaze squarely, his eyes shadowed with wariness, he defines the question. "Why help me?"

"You're my friend," Steve answers simply.

Bitterly, Bucky gives a short bark of laughter, the sound a far cry from the warm, good-natured laugh that he had once freely given. Crossing his arms, muscles taunt, he's unaware of how his position changes into a defensive one, like that of a wild animal who's been cornered, ready fight anything that blocks its path to freedom.

"I can't go back, Steve."

The sudden use of his name brings unaccountable relief to Steve, a small victory of sorts, proving that somewhere, locked in dormant stasis, there's still a small divot of Bucky Barnes.

"I can't remember…"

"Buck," Steve breaks in quietly, loyalty stirring words of comfort, but Bucky cuts him off, speaking quickly.

"I'm not who I used to be." Bracing himself from the turmoil within and without, he presses on, reserve disappearing with weary resolve, allowing his voice to give tongue to the thoughts that he's been pondering, his position no less tense than it has been for the entire course of the morning. Gaze locked on Steve's, eyes hard, forcing him to see the truth; his low voice states it plainly. "That man is gone. HYDRA killed him. I can't _be_ the friend you knew or had," he finishes harshly, worn smile twisting dismally.

Letting Bucky's words hang in the air, breakfast long forgotten; Steve's reply is a confirmation of Bucky's diatribe when he finally speaks.

"I know, Buck," Steve acknowledges quietly, leaving the kitchen, but not crowding the dark haired man, facing him across the room with a steadfast gaze. "Neither of us can go back to who we were."

Examining the words in his head, the inflection, the nature of the statement, Bucky shoots back cynically, abrasively, metal plates of his left arm rippling as the artificial hand fists at his side, "Then don't call me friend, that name doesn't belong to me."

Shaking his head slowly, Steve pronounces firmly, "No." Fixing his sight on the Soldier, longing to comfort his friend like in the days of old, he continues straightforwardly, "You'll always be my friend. No matter what happens."

Sagging back into the chair, incredulity sapping his will to fight, shoulders hunched in visible confusion, Bucky's brow furrows, absorbing the reiteration. Believing the conversation to be done, Steve turns back to his breakfast, the cereal now bordering on soggy, but satisfied with the step forward. Small as it is, it's progress.

Content with it, it comes as a surprise to hear Bucky's voice from nearby, not having heard the other's soft approach.

"Why?"

Turning to see Bucky standing at the edge of the kitchen, closing the distance between them but not removing it entirely, Steve meets his puzzled expression with a slight smile, reading the underlying question in the one word sentence.

Shrugging, but not committing an answer to the question, Steve informs casually, "I just want you to know that you belong."

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A/N: Okay, so this is based on Cap's line in Age of Ultron about "the man who went under the ice isn't the same one who came out." I wanted to do a short scene about it, but it kind of got carried away.

And sorry about the ending, I couldn't find a way to wrap it up smoothly, I hope it isn't too horrible though...

Thanks for reading!


	4. Fragments of a Life

A/N: Another type of prompt.

 **1\. Put your iPod on shuffle.**

 **2\. Write a short piece prompted by the title and/or the lyrics of the song that comes up.**

 **3\. You must finish writing by the end of the song (if the song ends while you are writing a sentence, you may finish that sentence afterward, but only the one).**

 **4\. Post song title/artist and song length above the piece.**

 **5\. Publish!**

Rather angsty little drabbles, but I wanted to post something to show that I'm still alive :) Give me a few more days and I should have the next one shot completed!

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 _When I'm Gone :: 3 Doors Down_

 ** _"I'll regret never saying good-bye."_**

He didn't get a chance to say good-bye.

The first time, leaving Steve to try his luck for the fifth time, he'd said good bye. It'd been bittersweet with the knowledge that the little punk would be safe. That the worst that could happen to him was that he'd be arrested for falsifying his identity. He hadn't known the army would be stupid enough to give him a chance. To let him be a guinea pig. To give him a shot at the front lines.

The punk had stolen that last one for himself, but they should have known better.

The second time, after his miraculous rescue, it'd been a cruel mistake. A simple mission, gone wrong. It should've been simple, but it'd ended with his fall.

They'd both regret that.

The last time was when he left Steve at the river. He never said good-bye.

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 _If Everyone Cared :: Nickelback_

 ** _"No one cares."_**

"Freedom's not what it used to be," Steve ranted.

"Give it a rest," Bucky sighed, running tired hands through his hair.

"Damn it! If they'd just listen!" Slamming a frustrated fist down, Steve turned anxiety ridden eyes to his best friend. "This isn't freedom," he murmured, voice heavy with grief.

"I know," Bucky answered sharply, eyes haggard. "I haven't been free for over seventy years; I know what type of life this is. It's a loveless one, where no one cares."

"They should care," Steve argued back.

* * *

 _Sound the Bugle :: Spirit Soundtrack_

 ** _"Who's are the tears?_**

Did they mourn?

When James Barnes died, how many people cried over his loss? The infamous Captain America? The Howling Commandos? Whatever family he might've had back in the states? How many might've missed him, wishing for him to return, grieved by the fact that he never would?

Or was it eclipsed by the Captain's sacrifice? James Barnes, just the friend who had willingly died for the sake of his friend.

What about his targets? Had they been mourned? Who had cried over their loss? Who had been tormented by their untimely deaths? Did they even learn why?

Did anyone miss him?

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 _Far Away :: Nickelback_

 ** _"Forgive me for being away."_**

"It was my mistake."

The blonde man sits wearily across from him, face haggard; burdened by a weight that none can take from his shoulders.

"If I could undo it- If it could've been me…" he says haltingly, brokenly, sentences coming in starts and stops.

Listening to the words, they come from far away, not registering, having little meaning. This man shouldn't be apologizing. He had nothing to blame himself for. He, the Winter Soldier, is the one who turned, who left, has killed for the appeasement of others, has shattered countless lives with his actions, he is the one who has been lost all this time.

But the words to say, the words that are felt in only vague impressions, the words that would bring Steve peace and closure, are the words he can't speak aloud.

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 _Hero :: Skillet_

 ** _"Heroes are human too."_**

A hero would come.

Muscles straining, lungs unable to provide enough oxygen for his body's many crying needs, he shoved his way through the crowd, uncaring of those pushed aside, wildly racing thoughts too scattered to care.

Heroes were supposed to exist for situations like these! Step in, save the day; it was their job!

Shock and desperation driving him from his position of observing bystander, he was too far away. Too far away, too blind, too careless! It was impossible for him to reach his best friend in time.

Of course no hero would come, though, for in this world, they were the heroes, and if they fell there was no one to save them.

The sniper had struck unexpectedly, unlooked for, catching them all off guard, bullet piercing unremittingly through Captain America's body.

Plowing forward relentlessly, Bucky kept his eyes fixed on where he'd last seen Steve. The crowd that hid him from view, engulfing him in their numerous ranks, now hindered him. Bellowing wounded cries, bewildered into stupidity, their hands reached mindlessly for help that wasn't there. A massive living organism with one mind of shocked horror.

Heartbeats counted desperate seconds. Seconds that lasted a lifetime, but promised one certainty.

Nothing Bucky could do would reverse the sniper's bullet.

* * *

/\\\/\\\

* * *

A/N: I would've written more, but I was exhausted last night. Might do this again sometime if my muse needs a jumpstart.

Thanks for reading!


	5. Love's a Riddle

A/N: This prompt was a little harder to work with, but I've had many of these scenes and conversations in mind for a while, so it was just a matter of fitting them to the theme. Hopefully it turned out well, I spent forever trying to perfect it lol.

* * *

/\\\/\\\

* * *

Prompt 2: Love

-§§§-

* * *

 ** _Love's a Riddle_**

 _"No love, no friendship, can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever." -Francois Mauriac_

...

"C'mon, Steve, it'll be worth it," Bucky encouraged, sipping intermittently on his malt between words.

"I don't know," Steve replied slowly, prodding at his root beer float. An uncertain frown dimmed his face, hand restlessly readjusting the carefully stacked pile of art supplies sitting on the stool next to him, unconsciously straightening them for the hundredth time.

Seated at the counter in Sweet Melody, the soda shop hummed with the quiet conversation of its patrons, content with their desserts, the chink of spoons punctuated throughout. The tantalizing smell of candy sweetened the air, the welcomed hiss of soda sounding regularly in the background. Black and white checkered tiles, glossy clean, off set the red seats of the booths, chairs, and bar stools at the counter, the room appearing larger than it was due to the wall-sized mirror behind the counter. In the corner, the jukebox played "Fine and Dandy" by Dorsay Brothers, the rollicking tune invigorating the mood. Though only a handful of people occupied the booths and chairs, a steady stream made their way through the doors, all looking to escape the heat outside.

Descending from its pinnacle, sloping to the hour of three, the sun hung heavily on its course, a scorching ball in the sky. Heat waves rippled across the street, humidity dampening the already stifling air; August bringing the final unbearable weeks of summer to a close before the cool of fall settled in. Having the day off from work, Bucky had accompanied Steve on his walk to and from art class, an opportunity that was rarely given to him and one he never failed to accept when it did come. For the sake of his own peace of mind, and to keep the little punk in line, as who knew what sort of trouble Steve got into when he wasn't there. Stopping in at Sweet Melody for malts during the walk home had been an impromptu decision.

"Aw, Coney Island's gonna be fun," Bucky reassured confidently, swirling his malt with his straw before taking another sip. Spotting the girl behind the counter, his eyes lit up, voice hushing devilishly as he leaned over to whisper to Steve, "And maybe we can take some girls."

"Bucky, no," Steve said firmly, tone matching Bucky's in volume. Glancing quickly in the girl's direction, recognizing her from their class, his gaze just as quickly dropped to the safety of his sketchbook, color rising to his face at the thought of how much worse a day at Coney Island could be if girls were involved.

"Watch and learn, punk," Bucky murmured. Flashing a friendly smile in Virginia's direction, his familiar face winning her attention, he drew her over to them.

One hand resting lightly on her hip, the other on the counter next to them, she leaned towards them with an open smile. "You boys doing all right? Anything I can get you?" she asked in playful teasing, tone indicating familiarity, though there was also an element of seriousness in it too.

"Nah, I think we're fine here," Bucky replied with a confirming glance at Steve. "Although, if it isn't too much trouble, I could use a refill," he said, sweetening the request with a grin.

"Sure thing," she answered easily, smiling back.

Getting up to follow her, wearing a victorious smirk, Bucky was stopped as Steve grabbed his arm, expression uncertain whether it should be alarmed or suspicious. "Hey! What're you doing?"

"Just watch," Bucky breathed back, patting him on the confidently as he shook him off. Moving to sit on a stool close to the soda machine, Bucky leaned over so he could whisper in her ear, "How'd you like to go dancing with me?"

Her reaction was instantaneous. Nearly dropping the glass, she whirled to face him, exclaiming, "Bucky Barnes! Is that any way to ask a girl?" she demanded; face bright with unconcealed pleasure at the unexpected question.

Looking dumbfounded, tongue suddenly in a knot, Bucky was taken aback by her words, uncertain about the meaning within them. Conversation lagged as the other patrons turn their way in interest, the music becoming unbearable noticeable in the resounding quiet. Steve resolutely fixed his eyes on the counter, though he cringed for his friend, not wanting to do anything to draw any more attention to the situation.

Abashed at the commotion they'd caused, faint color rose to Bucky's cheeks in a flush. "I didn't mean anything by it," he apologized swiftly, trying to recollect his composure.

Shaking her head in exasperation, neither in refusal of his apology, nor at his proposal, but in a female's mental disbelieving cry of ' _Men!_ ', Virginia carried his drink back to where Steve sat, explaining pertly over her shoulder, "Asking a gal to dance while she's working is not classy, James."

Returning to his seat meekly, making a face at the look Steve gave him, Bucky muttered, "I'll be sure to remember that."

"I expect you will," she retorted brightly. Becoming friendly once more, now laughing at how chagrined Bucky had been, conversation resumed its flow, settling into an easy pattern after that.

How's your summer been? What've you been up to? Remember Peter Daily from our class, well I just saw him last week. So where do you work? Any plans for continuing school, or are you taking a full time job?

Content to sit on the sidelines, sipping away at his root beer float, Steve listened in. Staying out of it for the most part, he let Bucky answer for him if the topic strayed in his direction, or added his two cents in for the sake of it when needed, but the other two were happy to run the thread of chat while he sat by. Observing their behavior, noting the flirting that passed none too subtly between them, it caught him off guard when Virginia suddenly turned to him, breaking into a new vein of conversation.

"Do you still draw, Steve?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Steve replied, startled by her sudden interest, hand unthinkingly finding his sketchbook again.

"May I see?" Virginia asked, smiling encouragingly, half turned away from Bucky, her focus on Steve. Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind an ear, eyes attentively lowered to glimpse the page, a demur smile dimpled her cheek as Bucky cut in.

"He doesn't like to show off, shy about his work." Leaning in, he bumped Steve knowingly.

"Just a peek?" she invited, dimple growing deeper, gaze sliding over to where Bucky was watching.

A slight frown clouding his features, watching Steve thoughtfully, he was slow to answer her. Realizing they were waiting for him to respond, he met her eyes, smile losing some of its sincerity, answering smoothly, "Well, Steve? They're your sketches."

"They're not very good," Steve said hesitantly, honestly believing in the low quality of his work.

Virginia hardly appeared to have heard Steve's remark, gaze skipping lightly past him to dart back and forth between the sketchbook and Bucky. Opening her mouth to answer, it was staved off as she was called away by a customer who was ready to order.

Pausing in her stride to shoot Bucky one last inviting smile, she hinted none too discreetly, "If you ask me to dance after I'm off my shift, I might just say yes." Winking, she hurried to take care of the customer.

Waiting until she had safely passed out of earshot, Steve commented, "Looks like you found a date."

Tight smile morphing into and expression of disgust, Bucky grumbled "Hated the way she played with you." Jabbing at his malt forcefully, earning a surprised look from Steve, who had been oblivious about that development, having seen only that his best friend was flirting again, he didn't get a chance to question if Bucky was sure about that before he continued with his complaints. "Any girl like that isn't worth her time."

* * *

oOo

* * *

Crossing the foyer to the stairs, preferring to jog up the few flights to his floor rather than take the elevator, Steve kept his footfalls light, quiet, conscientious of the fact that it was late and people would be sleeping. Sparse lighting illuminated the halls, enough for him to see his way, but low enough to discourage prolonged activities outside the apartments.

Reaching his floor, Steve's steps became casual, sensitive of the knowledge that if he approached softly, Bucky would probably react badly. They had learned that the hard way, after the first time he'd come home late from a date, and the experience had left both of them shaken.

Although, he highly expected to find Bucky already turned in for the night (or giving the pretense of sleep if nothing else), as he was returning later than usual.

Angling his shadow off the door's face, the ceiling light inconveniently located directly in front of his flat, it took a moment's work to unlock it. Door-latch snicking shut behind him, he left his shoes on the mat, pacing forward with an easy stride. Noting the muted light coming from the living room, a small smile appeared of its own accord.

"Hey, you're up," he stated, leaning against the doorframe.

Stretched upon the couch in a lazy loll, book propped up against his legs, right arm resting across the back of the couch, there was no expression on Bucky's face as his eyes followed the track of the words, a good indication that he was doing some 'cultural catch up'. Glancing up at Steve's voice, flashing a smile in greeting, contempt quickly replaced it as he jabbed the book roughly with his left hand, almost tearing the page from the action.

"Expanding my knowledge of pop culture," Bucky replied sarcastically with a snort, exhibiting the cover of the book he was reading to Steve, allowing him to see the title. "And may I just say," he continued, sarcasm becoming appalled derision. "That this generation is mortifying. If I had grandkids, I wouldn't want to meet them."

Eyebrows going up at that, an amused smirk crossing Steve's face, he asked humorously, "Is there something I should know about?"

Bucky was in a surprisingly communicative mood. Figuring out the differences the Winter Soldier had made in his best friend's personality was a constant navigation of trial and error. At times, Steve would find himself looking at Bucky askance, taken aback when the other seemed emotionless or especially vehement, those were the moments when he was sharply reminded of the fact that Bucky was still the Winter Soldier. In other instances, it was almost like old times, before World War II, and they would reminisce the scrapes they used to get into.

Right now, Steve couldn't tell which way Bucky's attitude would swing, having long ago associated the odd, not quite in character comments, as being a subtle test on his own reactions to determine whether Bucky would fall into the Winter Soldier personality, or open up and become his old self. Steve wasn't even sure if Bucky was aware of doing it, as he had never felt comfortable about asking.

Moving his legs off the couch, to better administer the glare directed at Steve, Bucky blanched at the thought. "It was theoretical," he informed tartly.

Shaking his head with a laugh, Steve disappeared into the kitchen to get a drink. "You really should read something else in the evening," he called back, teasing. "Because it always gives you a horrible attitude."

A quick laugh escaping him, Bucky shot back, "It's not my fault this generation turned out so wrong!"

Chuckling into his glass, sharing agreed laughter on the matter; Steve downed the water before returning to the living room, taking the other seat.

"How'd your date with Sharon go?" Bucky asked, sitting upright.

A happy smile lit Steve's face, eyes brightening at the memory of his evening. "Really well," he replied earnestly.

"Yeah?" Bucky questioned pensively, watching the other intently.

"Yeah," Steve echoed.

Eyeing the other, eyebrows raised expectantly, not missing Steve's love struck grin, Bucky waited the silence out. If there was anything left of their childhood-selves, it wouldn't be long until Steve began describing Sharon's attributes, comparing them to that of an angel and how that made her some sort of an artist's muse, just as he had with his first, real, love. Peggy had been the only other woman he'd seen his friend so enamored with.

"Yeah," Steve breathed again, ruffling his hair absently, mussing the carefully combed strands into spikes. "Yeah, I don't know, she's great, really great. We had a good time together. And she's a good gal, easy to talk to." A reminiscent look entered his smile, stirred by the thought of another time. "Something about her reminded me of Peggy."

Watching him with an understanding look, Bucky commented with a wry grin, "Guess it will always be a Carter for you." Quirking an eyebrow, he added roguishly, "Who would've thought that your second love would be the niece of your first?"

"Don't bash it," Steve warned with a laugh. "They're a good family. As you said," he shot back, "I guess it'll always be a Carter for me."

"Steve the ladies man, who would've thought?" Bucky mused, half aloud to himself, sitting back thoughtfully, eyes losing their focus as he stared into the middle distance.

"You said as much, once," Steve answered, slight amusement in his tone.

"Did I?" Bucky asked, brow furrowing, pulled from his reverie. "I don't remember."

"It was back in the '40's," Steve replied quietly. "We were at a bar, and you said you were becoming me."

"Peggy was there," Bucky added, glancing over for confirmation. Steve nodded, smiling in encouragement. "I kind of remember it then," Bucky admitted. "But I don't remember saying anything, I just remember being there."

Chuckling quietly, Steve corrected humorously, "You tried flirting with Peggy, offered to take her dancing, but she turned you down. After that was when you said you were invisible and becoming me."

"Hmm, I must've imprinted on the invisible part then," Bucky said, considering.

Silence settled around them, comfortable with musings, each thinking their own thoughts. The memories that had been spoken aloud lingered, familiar in their presence, breathed to life through reminiscing. Seconds passed unmarked, the late hour dallying, feeling as if not to move, the moment caught around the two of them. Small whispers of sound reached their ears, muted by distance as the apartment settled, the furnace clanking into a loud hum as it kicked on.

Shaking his head abruptly, Bucky declared, "Love's strange."

"Why'd you say that?" Steve asked with a grin.

"Any world where Steve Rogers has an easier time finding a date than I do has to be messed up."

Laughing, Steve offered, "Maybe I should start setting you up. I know a few girls..."

"Don't push it," Bucky warned, much to Steve's amusement.

* * *

/\\\/\\\

* * *

A/N: Couple things to note-

One, I based Sweet Melody off of three things. 1) Descriptions of what soda shops looked like in the 1900's. 2) Zaharakos, an old fashioned soda shop in my town that mimics that style. And 3) The ice cream shop from a show I watched as a kid, "Arthur" (if anyone remembers it...).

Two, on my song pick "Fine and Dandy" I tried to find something fitting for scene as well as one with lyrics that went along with what was happening. It was hard to find the original singer, so I apologize if I named the wrong group. Also, as I don't really listen to "big band swing", "ragtag", "blues" or any of the music styles that came out of the 1920's and '30's, I'm sure there are better songs that I could've chosen but due to my ignorance on the subject, I went with the best I could lol.

And three, on Virginia, the girl behind the counter at Sweet Melody, I originally was going to have it be Connie (or Bonnie, whichever one it was that Bucky took dancing in CA: First Avenger), but realized that if she treated Steve like that, there was no way Bucky would ask her out at a later point. So for that, I created a mild OC.

Thanks for reading!


	6. There Are Days

Prompt 4: Memory

-§§§-

* * *

 ** _There Are Days_**

 _"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts." -Winston Churchill_

 _"Moving on doesn't mean you forget about things. It just means you have to accept what happened and continue living."_

...

White scalloped clouds piled upon each other, leisurely roving across the pure blue of the autumn sky. Cast away by the wind, fallen leaves chased each other along the ground, finding rest when snagged by grass or fetching up against a barrier, vivid tones dull around the edges. Away to the right, various booths had been set up for a fall festival, displaying the handmade crafts that were for sale. Quilts, carvings, wreaths, paintings, knitting, all cleverly made, the owner of each giving demonstrations and offering bargains to potential buyers. To the left, full, round pumpkins lounged in their patch, hues a striking orange.

"There are days," Steve mused slowly, nodding with a dim smile, "when I'm tired of it all." Elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees cupping a warm mug of cider, his hands easily dwarfed the styrofoam cup.

Sunlight played through the leaves of the great oak tree behind him, shadows flitting weakly, brokenly, over the bench where he sat, hardly able to provide shade when the tree had so few of its leaves left.

* * *

 _In the early autumn of 19_, Steve and Bucky had spent their last day of summer running down to the wharf. Seagulls had squawked their piping cries, wings gray against the haze of the sky. Waves swept up the shore, low in tide, not lessening the scent of its salty tang. Sticking to their skin, the muggy atmosphere was filled with its briny taint._

* * *

Children scurried among the pumpkins, eager voices shrill with excitement as they hunted for the largest, most magnificent pumpkin that had ever existed. Parents stood by, filled with an indefinable sort of pride for their child/ren, capturing the moment with picture upon picture, smiles forever bright and excited in the captured image.

"I remember what my life used to be, how things were," Steve continued, eyes watching the crowds with a passive interest; smile curiously displaced from his quiet words. "Most of the time I can remember that it's gone and accept how things are now."

* * *

 _Fall of 19_, he had missed the first two weeks of school due to pneumonia. His mother had been hard pressed trying to care for him and fulfill her shift at the hospital to bring in much needed income. Though she'd never spoken her worries aloud, Steve could recall the look in her eyes from that week, as if she might be looking at him for the last time. That by leaving her baby, always so frail and sickly, she might not be there when he needed her most, when she could've staved off the potential fatality of the illness by being there._

 _Neither of them told her the reason why Bucky had been in so much trouble during the early part of the school year, or that he had played truant for nearly two weeks._

* * *

A silver airplane arced overhead, leaving a white wake, which stretched like a scar, behind it, its voice a dull drone. Off to the right, to the side and behind, gravel popped and crunched, disturbed by the passage of cars as they entered and left the parking lot.

"But there are days when the truth of it hits me hard. Waking up from the ice, it felt like everything happened yesterday. The war, the crash, chasing Schmidt... My entire life," -shrug- "just picked up where it left off, but it couldn't."

Withered cornstalks shook, leaves rattling as the light breeze knocked them against each other. Standing tall behind the other activities, the cornfield turned maze marked the limits of the festival. Eager travelers seeking passage through the maze approach with excited smiles, the sound of their voices swiftly dying as they disappeared into the midst of the corn.

Voice quieter now, body visibly mirroring the weight of his words, he continued. "It's not so much the memories from back then as it is the realization that I lived there, and should've continued to do so, but by some curse or miracle didn't. On those days, everything just crashes. I can't bring myself to move on because how can I when that's all gone? The era I was born in, swept away by the modern world, how can I face that? How can I bring myself to go on?"

* * *

 _He had to get out. This was wrong, all wrong! Where was Peggy? The SSR? How had he gotten here?_

 _Noise screamed around him, unfamiliar, cacophonic. Lights flashed, reflected sunlight bouncing off the silver sides of the buildings and foreign vehicles, neon signs proclaiming unintelligible advertisements. Pungent scents, rich but not any he recognized, filled his nose, burning and painful._

 _Halting, mind working feverishly to solve this riddle, to figure out where his enemies had taken him, he found only more confusion. Wherever he looked, it was all the same, an endless nightmare, unescapable._

 _"At ease soldier..."_

* * *

Shaking his head gently, he filled in softly, "Sometimes I can't. But then something will happen and the world will need me so I must. Does that answer your question?" he asked, glancing at his silent companion.

Eyes drifted over the scene, left hand shoved deep into his pocket, right hand clutching a forgotten styrofoam cup, Bucky considered the question. His mind took Steve's words, mused over them, tumbling their meanings around and around before locking them away for permanent remembrance. Starting to shrug, he paused, and nodded. Catching Steve's eye, noting the genuine concern the other felt, he offered the slightest tilting up of the corners of his lips, hardly a smile but the best he could manage, to reassure his friend that yes, that answered his question.


End file.
